mother, we are well
by kathleenfergie
Summary: "he guides me with a light hand on my back, bringing me through his kingdom. he introduces me to all; i am his queen, they know this, and they bring me whatever tokens they can. flowers, twigs, morning dew. he weaves them into my dark hair and i wear them like a crown. he says my name softly and teaches me about his ways." persephone writes to her mother. oneshot.


alright, so this piece was inspired by the poem "Persephone Writes To Her Mother" by Tara Mae Mulroy. the poem in its entirety is used within this in all the italics.

i'm just going to begin this by saying that i have a very brief knowledge of greek/roman mythology. i'm a fan, and i've read about it, but i do not know a lot. i've tried to use the internet to help me as much as i can, but if there are flaws that you'd like me to fix, let me know.

also, i know there are some questionable things in the original myth, but this is just a little interpretation. take what you want from it.

i don't own the poem, i just used it because it was beautiful.

enjoy :)

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><p><em>Mother, he is a gentleman.<em>

he guides me with a light hand on my back, bringing me through his kingdom. he introduces me to all; i am his queen, they know this, and they bring me whatever tokens they can. flowers, twigs, morning dew. he weaves them into my dark hair and i wear them like a crown. he says my name softly and teaches me about his ways.

_He is a builder with bricks of moonlight._

his palace is incomplete, he tells me, always to expand. mist forms in his hand, glowing as if the moon itself is within his palms, and adds parts to the black stone of his home. when all is dark i can see the veins of the night within my chamber walls. he presses the silver wisps into my skin.

_He knows the secret places of the earth._

he brings me pomegranate from above, even when they should not grown in my mother's cruel winters. when the juice hits the dark ground asphodel sprouts from its drops. the flowers bud in his palace and along the rivers. charon's oar drags through them and he smiles, tugging free.

_He washes the sleep from the eyes of the souls._

they skirt away when we come through the gardens, melting into trees, although they know his kindness. it is me they do not trust yet. at the bank of the styx he touches each cheek and thumbs their tears away. they look to me with confusion, and i do not touch them. where they land i bring forth a flower; the styx now flows through a meadow.

_He lets them look on beauty._

even the ones damned to tartarus are allowed his treasures, are allowed to look upon my face one last time before committing themselves to the blazon depths. they kiss my hand and only once they beg does he pull them away.

_He lets them tell him they hate him._

they cry and they scream and he sits there in silence. charon will only tell them that they are dead and that it cannot be changed, silencing their every question. my husband allows them their voice for the small moment that they are with him. if they could, i am sure they would spit in his eye. i remember orpheus, whose pain my love will never forget, and the look the musician gave him when eurydice was sent back down.

_In the mornings, I gather berries and apples._

he feasts on the things that i grow, juice splashing between his white teeth. at night i am the fruit under his mouth.

_I scrub his back with rind._

i cleanse him of all the words, the cries, the pain from them that he carries on his shoulders. i tell him that he is doing atlas' work and that he should let them go. my hands come away raw.

_I weave spider-spit, eyelash._

in the beginning he gave me chitons of grey wool, thick and heavy. he may not feel apollo's rays on his skin but mine is still blazing when i come home. the spiders that hide in plants and in his palace lend me their webs, and my gowns flutter around me. they let the cool seep into my bones.

_He talks in his sleep: pudding, fire, discus,_

_the things he misses._

at night his body shakes against me, his skin colder than the stone he makes. i soothe his shivers and kiss the sun into his neck. i pray that the warmth i bring from above is enough for him. i long to bring him gifts, but they burn away from me if i let them below. he shakes the ashes from my hair when i come back to him, my gifted crowns becoming one with his kingdom.

_He breathes, Your body is my orchard._

i am not without love. his breath is on my cheeks when he compliments my eyes, kissing each lash. when he bites, i feel the scruff of his dark beard, trimmed neatly, rub against my shoulder. later, my skin is red and i blush darker than the marks when hecate rearranges the pins at my shoulders.

_I am undulating grass._

he moves me, makes me bounce on my feet to music that is nowhere. when orpheus joins us again, his lyre creates the wind in which we sway inside of. in elysium, eurydice sits at her love's feet as he creates strands of beauty.

_I am a field of wheat he parts with his fingers._

he loves me softly and harshly all at once. his hands create warmth. when we are near he does not leave my skin. my fingers splay against his arm when he is on his throne. when he is not receiving, his lap is my throne, and i, its queen.

_Poppies bloom in my veins._

he causes the blood beneath my skin to boil. he inspires rage, hatred, and sorrow within me. it is like a drug, what he does to me.

_When he kisses me, he tastes pomegranate._

some days he smears pomegranate juice across my lips so that he can remember what i tasted like the first time. he drinks from my mouth like it is a spring. my tongue never dries. these kisses do not taste as bitter as the ones in the beginning, the ones that scared me.

_The night crawls nearer._

it is always growing darker, even in blackness. his dark eyes are hollow somedays, and shadows grow under his eyes. the cold above sends him more souls. they shake from the lack of the sun. they look at me and they know. they look at him and they blame. i weave blankets with his tiredness.

_The moans of the dead roll and swell._

they sing him a lullaby. its melodies carry grief, guilt, nostalgia. he sleeps in my arms and they are quiet. they wake him like thunder in the morning. he wakes to my face, and the blackness is gone. i sweep the sand from him and he kisses my lips.

_Mother, we are well._


End file.
